


to hope

by kurgaya



Series: from ocean to ocean [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: Ezra pulls away from his blaster, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m Ezra Bridger of the Rebel Alliance. Heard of me?”Baze lifts his eyes to Ezra’s and then shakes his head. Have you heard of me, he wants to snarl back. Have you heard of what I lost for your Rebellion?[Baze survives Scarif AU]





	to hope

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from tumblr.
> 
> honestly it’s not that angsty cause poor baze needs some hope in his life. i’ve been catching up with star wars rebels so??? why not write a drabble of baze bumping into the ghost crew? :)

The shuttle groans as it squeezes through hyperspace. Blue starlight flashes behind Baze’s eyes as he peels them open, his brow and forehead heavy under the pressure of pain. He winces but withholds a sound, remaining motionless as the low, grey walls of the shuttle cage him in. He has slept in many-a-uncomfortable places in his life, but stretched out across four, rusting, unlevel swing seats in the hold of an unfamiliar ship is a first. The shuttle is hardly a few metres in width, allowing but two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the hold. There is nobody present but Baze, but the shuttle rocks and clanks as it speeds on, the ever-present whir of the engine a familiar sound.

Baze blinks at one of the grates on the ceiling. Air hisses in and out as though the ship itself is breathing. This is not a spacecraft he recognises - but why would it be? There are few left in the universe who would remember him, and even fewer who might come to his aid. He has no recollection of how he came to be resting here, but Baze fathoms that the dull pain in his head is answer enough. The circular lights overhead may be watching him, and he squints to lessen his pounding headache. He remembers dirt-track streets and a city half-buried in a savannah. Sunlight poured like molten gold over the backwaters, but the voices of the town were the shadows of the Empire’s reign still looming, still mountainous across the sky.

Six months since that day, and still the Empire festers. Baze closes his eyes against the light, willing the flash of grenade-fire away. It stalks him as the moon does the sun, as star destroyers and stormtroopers do in the shadow the galaxy, ever-turning, chasing a blaze that will be their end.

Twice has Baze escaped death - and isn’t twice enough?

The sound of a well-versed argument begins to echo from the cockpit, the huffs and laughter of two people reverberating around the shuttle. The voices are unfamiliar, but they are warm where the shuttle is a cold, liminal vessel in the vastness of space. The more familiar sound is the low, static hum of a communication console, and memories of the swollen blues of Eadu rise unbidden, the glint of Jyn’s kyber crystal and Bodhi’s bravery in the storm, and how the downpour thundered ceaselessly against the jumbled wreckage of Cassian’s ship. Baze shudders, feeling that Imperial-fested rain bite through him once again. Pushing those thoughts away, he focuses instead on the conversation in the cockpit, easing his head over to hear the bickering all the better.

There comes a sigh from within the static, loud enough that Baze doesn’t have to strain to hear it. “ _Why do I get the impression that you have something else to report?_ ” asks a third person, the voice motherly and firm. The comm line distorts her voice as it flickers in and out, but her exasperation is clear.

One of the two people in the cockpits laughs nervously. “Err, well, the thing is -”

“The kid kidnapped some poor sucker,” grumbles one of the men, this one low and worn with an animalistic growl around the sharper sounds, as though the words have to fight through a mouthful of fangs to escape. “He’s laid out in the back.”

“I didn’t _kidnap_ him,” the other man insists, young enough to barely be a man, perhaps. “He just sorta - _fell_ into the Phantom?”

“ _He fell... into the Phantom,_ ” the feminine voice repeats dubiously, and Baze imagines her full-body sigh.

“The ‘Troopers helped,” says the lower voice, slapping his companion on the back. “Never seem ‘em actually hit something before, but I guess we’ve got Ezra to thank for that.”

“Hey, I was trying to protect _us_! I didn’t know that guy was just going to _appear_ -”

“Didn’t the Force warn ya?”

“ _No_ , because it was telling me to _get the hell outta there_ -”

“ _All right, all right. We can’t afford to turn the Phantom around now, but bringing him back to base is out of the question. Especially with his allegiance up in the air._ ” The woman over the comm line pauses, considering; air hisses through the ventilation above Baze’s head. “ _I’ll send you through some coordinates - rendezvous with me there. Try and keep yourselves out of trouble until then, boys._ ”

“Aye aye, captain,” they parrot, and the console beeps as the coordinates arrive. Heavy footfalls plod around the cockpit, and the shuttle creaks under the weight. Metal grinds together as a chair spins on its axis, and then there is a sigh as gruff as his voice from the older man, followed by the slow punch of computer keys.

The young man - Ezra? - laughs. “Stay out of trouble? She’s joking, right?”

“I wish she wasn’t,” is the replying grumble, hinting at a deadpan humour. “Go check on the old guy, would you? You almost shot his brains out.”

“Least he’s got brains,” Ezra quirps, which earns him a notably less friendly swat. He’s still laughing as he strides out of the cockpit and notices Baze heaving himself up off the seats; halfway through the doorway he freezes, standing soldier-still and alert, any trace of the untroubled youth he may have been vanishing without a trace. He straightens, shoulders stiff and broad, and yet there is a slightness about him that suggests he has been forced into adulthood well before his years. War-torn planets birth worn-torn children, and Ezra has eyes that have seen the loss of family, friends, and home.

Ezra may look like Baze, one day.

“Uh, Zeb, he’s up.” Ezra calls back into the cockpit, his gaze remaining fixed on Baze. “How are you feeling? Hope I didn’t hit you too hard.” He doesn’t smile, but his mouth twitches into something that could almost be a smile. Apology settles into his expression with a grimace, but the word “sorry” doesn’t extend to possible-Imperialists like Baze, it seems.

Baze says nothing for a long moment, struggling to find the words to reply. His need to speak has dwindled over the past few months, and now he only converses in snippets of Basic here and there - low warnings and gruff, bitten-off curses that clog with disuse in his throat. A fierce eye and the flash of a blaster are adequate for most who approach him. But for everyone else, he is not afraid to misuse the holy Jedhan and spit a curse or two.

Ezra shifts his weight, losing some of that soldier rigidity. “Err, you can understand Basic, right?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck. “I _was_ aiming for the Stormtrooper, just so you know. Couldn’t just leave you down there though, so.”

“You are rebels?” Baze drawls, swinging his legs down from the seat. It _clangs_ against the shuttle’s hull as it snaps upright, and Baze’s shoulders tighten at the sound. Pain burns down his arm, a red-hot blitz from a blaster bolt that lingers even now, days and months and never-ending hours since. Baze’s hand twitches involuntarily, fingers digging into his thigh, but if Ezra notices then his face reveals nothing - no sympathy or pity, just an endless, overwhelming blue.

“You aren’t?” Ezra accuses. He reaches for the weapon at his hip, his hand hovering over the holster. It is clearly a blaster from just a glance, but it is the weapon at his other side - a cylinder encased in rings of black and silver - that captures Baze’s attention.

Decades have passed since he last laid eye on such a weapon.

“Who are you?” Baze demands, bile rising in his throat. He clenches his jaw and wills the churning, sickening wave of grief down, focusing instead on the fire spreading from his shoulder to his chest, burning beneath new scars and melting open the old. He tears his gaze away from the weapon, unwilling to see the scuffs and plasma-welts that mar the relic from use.

The shuttle quakes. Ezra’s expression tightens. His lightsaber clatters against his thigh. “You been living under a rock, old man?”

Baze thinks of the star destroyer looming over NiJedha and decides not to grace that with an answer. The implication that this young man - this _boy_ \- before him is capable of wielding a lightsaber is a suffocating weight, and Baze can feel his heart pounding in his ears. The Force, he knows, is a cruel and distant orchestrator, caring not for the wills and wants of a single man. It has never favoured the Jedi and it never will. Baze has seen what the Force did for Jedha, for Jyn, and for hope; he was there when it tore down the temple and overturned the city into the sky, and there he remained when all sparks were lost but one, following that sole kyber heart until the Force abandoned him too.

There’s a call of, _you guys done chit-chatting?_ from the cockpit. Baze startles, but Ezra only sighs. He hangs his head, just briefly, probably resisting the temptation to snap something back at his crewmate.

“Fine then,” Ezra says, losing his patience. Around them, the shuttle continues to rattle as it carries them far into the galaxy; they could be anywhere right now, they _are_ anywhere right now, and yet that thought doesn’t frighten Baze. He has been lost since he awoke on Yavin IV all those months ago, so whatever nameless planet or star he finds himself in orbit of makes no difference.

Ezra pulls away from his blaster, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m Ezra Bridger of the Rebel Alliance. Heard of me?”

Baze lifts his eyes to Ezra’s - but only for a moment, having seen all that he needs to see - and then shakes his head. _Have you heard of me_ , he wants to snarl back. _Have you heard of what I lost for your Rebellion?_

“Even fools know of the Rebel Alliance,” is what Baze eventually mutters, his heart and tongue stuttering over _Rebel Alliance_. He lets his gaze sweep around the shuttle, considering the close-quarters in light of Ezra’s revelation - this is a rebel ship, but Baze doesn’t recognise the crew from Yavin IV. Blaster burns mark every surface, and the hatch in the centre of the floor is scratched and discoloured. He doesn’t see the Rebellion’s starbird painted anywhere, and nor does he find the few, meager belongings that he had been carrying. The credits and food he cares not for, but the pain in his chest flares into panic as he rises and stumbles in search of the only thing - _the only thing_ \- he has left worth protecting.

“The staff,” Baze exclaims, more of a grunt than a gasp, but a sound of desperation all the same. Strands of hair trickle free from his bun, brushing over the scar at his eye. The high updo does nought to hide the smattering of burns and gouges that cover the back of his head and neck, but Baze is tired of hiding his scars.

Ezra just says, “What?” as though he has no idea - and this may be the case, Baze realises with a mounting dread; an old, cracked staff might have been such an easy thing to overlook when heaving Baze from the rubble and the fight.

 _Stormtroopers_ , the rebels had said. _Had he been caught in a scuffle with ‘Troopers?_

“ _I had a staff_ ,” Baze insists, shoving his way past Ezra and into the cockpit. Ezra scrambles after him with a shout, but his exclamation is lost to the sound of the Lasat at the helm cursing up a storm.

“What in the blazes?” Zeb drawls, bearing his fangs as Baze wedges his way into the cramped space. Half-rising out of the chair, his feline-like ears flick back as he gestures rudely. “ _Ezra_ , why aren’t you keeping an eye on this guy? Hey, _hey_ , nerve burner, go sit in the hold and _calm down_ would ya?”

Ezra leaps in and throws up a pacifying hand before Zeb can follow through with his threat. “No wait, it’s okay! He’s only looking for the staff -”

Zeb sighs, eyeing Baze with suspicion. “We took weapons off him for a reason, kid,” he grumbles, but even as he does, he reaches one large, clawed hand across the communications console to where the staff is lying. Baze’s pack and blaster are there as well, but Baze only has eyes for the dark, uneti wood and the silver-capped kyber crystal. Part of the kyber’s protective casing has broken, allowing a gentle light to seep from the tip of the staff. The wood is twisted and splintering, and its length has nicked Baze’s hands many times. Zeb throws it over with little regard; it must seem a piece of trash in his eyes, something that has outworn its function, no longer practical or beautiful. Once, decades ago, it was an example of craftsmanship of the highest quality, but now all that remains of that time is a shell.

Baze would cling to it with an iron-knuckle grip were he not terrified of breaking it further. Instead, he can only cradle it, and though he hopes to never lose it even with such a gentle hold, these past years have shown the opposite to be true.

“Who _are_ you?” Ezra asks, just as the flight console beeps and the shuttle’s engines shudder with a slow, echoing groan.

“Karabast, we’re here,” Zeb says, punching a series of commands into the computer. Ezra drops into the other seat and patches himself into the communications, leaving Baze standing behind the two chairs at a loss, his shoulder and head and heart still aching, the soft glow of the kyber warming the callouses on his hands.

Darkness encompasses the front screen as the shuttle slams out of hyperspace, the blue rivers of light fizzling out of sight. For a moment, there is nothing to see except the reflection of the console in the glass, but then another ship appears from the portside, drifting silently into view. It is a clunky, almost hexagonal ship, built not for speed or agility but what, Baze cannot be certain. Its appearance alarms neither Ezra nor Zeb, so the ship must belong to their captain, the woman on the comm-line just a short while ago.

“No funny business,” Zeb warns, sparing Baze a withering glare as he maneuvers the shuttle into docking. “If you’re an Imperial, you’re gonna get _real cosy_ with the end of my rifle.”

Baze holds his glare, refusing to bristle. This appears to earn him a fraction of Zeb’s favour, for the Lasat doesn’t sneer when he turns back to the controls. Baze doesn’t have any need to make a good impression with this crew, and yet the tightness in his chest loosens as Zeb and Ezra turn their backs to him, an implicit trust that Baze has not experienced for many years. Even the Rogue One crew had been wary, Baze recalls, thinking of Jyn’s closed-off posture and K2’s ever-vigilant guard.

“He’s not Imperial,” Ezra says, his conviction surprising even Baze. “Trust me.”

Zeb scoffs. “Trust _you_ , or trust the Force? ‘Cause either way, I ain’t liking our chances. You even got his _name_?”

“Err -”

“Baze.” It slips out unbidden before Baze can consider an alias, and it earns him two blanks looks from the rebels. “My name.”

“Aha! See? Got his name.” Ezra’s grin is brilliant and bold; he is a youth again, not a soldier, and the soft, amenable centre of Baze’s heart twists. Zeb apparently doesn’t feel the same way, for he throws up his hands with a curse. The shuttle nearly misses the docking clamps as he does, and all three men yell as the ship lurches to the side. It _thumps!_ into the ship below and slides off, and they all wince at the protesting creak from the hull.

“Okay, that was _not_ my fault,” Ezra says, twittering innocently. “That was all on you, big guy. Baze’ll back me up.” He reaches back to rap his knuckles against Baze’s chest, and as Baze jerks back so violently that he almost tumbles straight back into the hold.

“Err, maybe not,” Ezra says with the tact of a charging bantha, and this time Zeb buries his face into his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
